How strange, I talk with my father at this time of night, though perhaps he can not hear nor see me, nor even answer with a gesture of his head. And perhaps can not even feel my presence .. but on this I really have my doubts, since we are quiet whenever I get close and kiss her forehead. Today was a sad day, the worst of my life. It 'was the first of these terrible three months when I thought of not succeeding and nerves, doped by valerian and seemed calm and reaching out to an alleged construction of my new future in this new life that we received on the neck , have sold all at once, and I was overwhelmed .. for many things. This time not about the absolute loss of any residual form of Christian faith, due to not understand why a good person like my father should end his days in this state and not finding any fault in the life of my mother or my sister or having to attend to my helpless to its total decomposition. This time it got to do the anger of being raised in a place where to have a place in the hospital with a dying father must pay a bribe, where to stay in the hospital with a dying father is win the sympathy of the primary and perhaps support its terrorism psychological and try to let you know that your father too, and you have to find another hospital. Another hospital operated by Catholic nuns, like everything else in the Health Lease desired by, and then this time not just the tangent (disguised as donations), but is nothing less than the recommendation of a papal nuncio .. and then making up and down, with his dying father, to search for that Monsignor remote country in the Americas for the grace to intercede .. it does, but then discover that this hospital close to home and much more comfortable than this one, where my father is dying is not equipped to receive patients in a vegetative state because in the hurly-burly of the recommendations of the various cardinals and politicians complacent no one has taught a nurse to draw a tracheotomy, for an anesthesiologist to replace a cannula, a neurologist to manage a coma. Well, since the Be father is dying, but also young and that I was born in the land where no one has ever thought of building a rehabilitation clinic near my house was worth in this absurd day to try to contact the clinics of the rich north, where health care works where there are those famous structures that the president proposed to Mr Formigoni. Eluana Englaro for the poor, or even in the capital .. Then soon you'll find that you enter here only for knowledge and recommendations for admission to waiting lists of several months, hoping of course that the father is not dead in the meantime. What about the carousel fax (useless) phone calls (unnecessary) of obsessive research online about these cathedrals of rehabilitation medicine, including a cough and another, between a infermeriera angry about having to change a diaper in the night and a gnashing of teeth continuous creepy ..
I finally understood what he said before asking the poor Welby, who had his conscience intact, to pull the plug and get rid of his respitarore from prison of his dead body: "I'm Italian and this state has no pity" .
Holy
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